


Night Off

by Barb Cummings (Rahirah)



Series: The Barbverse [98]
Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff, Holiday
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-21
Updated: 2009-11-21
Packaged: 2017-10-03 12:02:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rahirah/pseuds/Barb%20Cummings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Buffy takes one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Night Off

**Author's Note:**

> This story is set in the same universe as _A Raising in the Sun_, _Necessary Evils_, et. al. (See the [Barbverse Timeline](http://sleepingjaguars.com/buffy/viewpage.php?page=timeline) for specifics.) It contains spoilers for previous works in the series. A slightly late ficlet for Cinco de Mayo. (Many thanks to Gillo and Bogwitch for Spike!slang advice, and to Red Sunflower for the beer knowledge. *g*

"Bloody Yanks, always swiping holidays." Spike takes a lazy swig of Montejo as he reclines on the porch steps. "Cultural appropriation is what it is. Any year now you'll snaffle Guy Fawkes, see if you don't."

 

Buffy licks salt from the rim of her glass. Spike insists margueritas are a desecration of good tequila, but this isn't good tequila, and anyway, she's never met alcohol that couldn't be improved by a blender full of ice and a little umbrella. "Says Mr. The-Sun-Never-Sets. Like you care if there's another excuse to blow things up."

 

"True," Spike agrees. "Snaffle away."

 

She laughs, pulling him down for an agreeably beery kiss. When their lips part she settles into the cool sinewy circle of his arm, one hand playing beneath the hem of his t-shirt. Her fingertips trace the sleek line of his belly, steely ripple of muscle beneath a wafer-thin layer of fat. Tricky, because he's so ticklish, but if she strokes just right… Mmm, yeah, there's that deep-down definitely-not-a-purr, predatory counterpoint to the lusty chirr of crickets.

 

Moths whisper round the street lights in suicidal rapture, warm spring evening stretching like taffy into summer. All her holidays, she reflects, have slipped down the pages of the calendar, sunny days melting into long blue evenings and starry nights. She's not all that sad about it. Slayers really aren't morning people. In a minute someone will yell, "Moooooooom!" or the phone will ring or Clem will pop up out of the manhole at the curb with a crisis. But stolen or not, it's still a holiday.

 

 

**End**


End file.
